Jim's Story Jim was born in 1968, just before Apollo 11 was launched to the moon. Later on in his life, Jim West went on to launch his very own moon unit in the Brecon Beacons. But not before he fell in love with the amazingly named Doris Wartenburg. Read this, Tales of the Smear's first tale of true romance, below here, now. This tale is a break from the usual instant conversation style. It was written by Jim and edited slightly by me, Elaine Clench. |

| Fate, that's what it was. It must have been Fate that had decided to finally reward me for all those years of frustration and loneliness. There I was, eleven years old and never even talked to a female outside of my family, much less found out if they were human or, as I had long suspected, from some sexy alien world in a distant galaxy. Being sent to an all boy's school from a young age does odd things to your brain. So, there I was, hormones zipping around without purpose in my skinny frame, waiting for the coach that was to whisk us away to South Wales on an adventure holiday in the sun. The usual semi-chaos; a gaggle of excited boys eager to get on the coach and get to the back seats, the teachers discussing how best to get hammered and still satisfy the Health and Safety requirements of looking after 30 eleven-year-old boys. Suddenly, my tongue unfurled like a carpet, as around the corner came... a girl. My heart jumped up into my throat, causing me no small discomfort, as I turned to my mate, Jago (don't ask, not that you can), and said "Err.who's that?" "That," he replied, "is Doris. She's Mr. Wartenburg's." "Oh." I quipped in return. At that precise moment my brain was not firing on any cylinders. There was room for only one thought, and that was; ".... ............ ..... ....... . . .. .... ...." This was accompanied by a faint buzzing. Eventually, I started to become aware of my surroundings, and my thought processes developed to repeating the name "Doris" over and over again. She was easily the most beautiful woman I had ever seen outside of a television or magazine, competing as she was with my family. How had this heavenly creature sprung forth from the loins of our stupid-bearded german teacher? Shouldn't she at least vaguely look like her parents? Had her mother had an affair? Or was it like when Kermit and Miss Piggy had kids, and all the boys were frogs, and all the girls were pigs (neatly avoiding a hybrid called Frigs)? Anyway, Doris could not have looked less like her father if someone had hit her with a train. Metaphorically speaking. If you see what I mean. Then she smiled at me. The next few days were a bit of a blur, to be honest with you. I seemed to spend most of my time lost in a world of Doris Wartenburg. I don't think anybody else noticed, at least I hope they didn't, but all my efforts were a thinly veiled attempt to impress her. I went rock climbing and abseiling, even though I can't stand heights. I went kayaking and sailing, even though I hate open bodies of water because of all the monsters that lurk just beneath the surface. I entered the table tennis competition and nearly won, lent determination by the thought of Doris watching me. I taught origami to the other kids, hoping my paper folding skills would score me some points, any points. I volunteered to help with the washing up. All of it was for Doris. It was the greatest week of my life. I didn't even care that her name was Doris Wartenburg. I was in heaven. Then Friday arrived. Our last day in Penarthur, our final chance to exlore the splendour of the Brecon Beacons, was to be spent hiking up Pen-Y-Fan. The weather was perfect, a beautiful sunny day, but with a slight chill to the air, as we rose with the sun to get a nice early start. Doris sat next to me on the bus as we set off, and I just knew today would be one to remember. The day was spectacular, the views from the summit of the table-top mountain managed to cut through my acrophobia and leave me breathless. The alternate view - of Doris in her blue jeans, hiking boots and big fluffy sweater - left me wondering what she would look like without the blue jeans, hiking boots and big fluffy sweater. Jesus, I wanted to see her naked. And so we began the long trek back to the bus, a good hour's walk across a nice flat landscape with only the occasional small lake to break the monotony and the odd tussock. Heh. Tussocks. Not to put too fine a point on it, nowhere to take a crap. Which I really needed to do. Badly. You know how it is sometimes, when you can't hold it in any longer, and it's shit or die? I didn't want to die. Luckily, as far as luck goes in these situations, it wasn't one of those liquid poos. It was solid enough to nestle in the back of my underwear, concealed by the long jumper I was wearing. I was reasonably confident that I wouldn't be found out purely on a visual basis. I was a little concerned about the smell, as it was a small bus we were on, but I can only assume that everyone else's nasal cavities were as bunged up as mine from the cold air at the top of the mountain, as nobody appeared to notice. Could it be that I was going to get away with this? I muttered a silent prayer and made sure not to sit too close to Doris. On our arrival back at headquarters, I immediately made for the toilet block, picking up a fresh pair of underwear from my dorm along the way. Locking myself in a cubicle, I managed to clean myself up and, donning the new, squeaky clean underpants, congratulated myself on the crime of the century. Now, what to do with these shit-stained pants? Being of a conscientious nature, I decided it would be a good idea to give them a quick wash, so they wouldn't be too smelly when I returned home the following day so, checking the coast was clear, I went over to one of the sinks and proceeded to clean the aforementioned stinky underpants under the tap. At which point I could hear approaching footsteps. What should I do? Stay put, and run the risk of having to explain my actions? Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, I quickly returned to the cubicle, but alas! Too late! I had been spotted, apparently running suspiciously into a cubicle from the sink, where I had left the tap running. I heard whoever it was walk over to the sink, then shout, "Eeeuuurrgghh!!!!! You've shit in the sink, you sick wanker. Uuurrgghh, that's disgusting. Oh man, wait 'til I tell everyone about this!" and, whatever business he came in for forgotten, he ran from the toilets, his cries of "Jim shit in the sink! Hey, everyone, Jim shit in the sink!!!" fading into the distance. Needless to say, it took a while for me to summon enough courage to emerge from the toilet block and, shamefacedly, try to explain what had happened. The teachers seemed to accept my story, but I'm sure that secretly the teachers, and not so secretly my fellow pupils, didn't believe a word of it. As for Doris, I don't think she really cared what anybody else thought, and on the journey home she fell asleep on my shoulder, her warmth feeding my soul for the three hours it took to get back to London. And do you know the strangest thing about that week? Looking back I realize that throughout the entire week, Doris and I probably exchanged only three words, and two of those were "Hi." I forget the third.